


Over a Pint of Dwarven Ale

by Idrelle_Miocovani



Series: Cloak and Dagger [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alcohol, Drama, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Kissing, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Tipsy Kiss, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 10:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12106398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrelle_Miocovani/pseuds/Idrelle_Miocovani
Summary: After arriving in Orzammar, Rhea and Alistair take a moment to relax in Tapster's Tavern. A heart-to-heart over drinks takes a slightly different turn than expected.





	Over a Pint of Dwarven Ale

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a tumblr prompt asking for "Warden x Alistair" and "tipsy kiss". Rhea is my newest Warden, so I'm taking her out for a whirl. Thanks for reading!

Alistair thought he was fairly decent at holding his liquor. He was a Grey Warden, after all—and all Wardens had consumed something far worse than too many ales and survived. His memories of the months leading up to Ostagar were filled with evenings spent with the other Wardens, an assortment of drinks in hand as they shared battle stories, played pranks on each other and howled with laughter, all of them seeking relief from the stress and anxiety of battling the darkspawn. 

However, Alistair had never—until that moment—consumed dwarven ale. And dwarven ale, much like their fine crafts, was a completely different animal than what was brewed on the surface. 

It was their second “night” in Orzammar. 

Though, of course, Alistair thought that “night” was a bit generous. The city never truly slept, for without the sun and the moon they had no concept of night and day. Everything just kept _happening_ , regardless of whether people wanted to sleep or not. When one hollering merchant left to close shop for the day, another rolled in to take his place. The lamps and the fires never dimmed, the rush of workers through the lower streets came and went diligently every eight hours. Orzammar was in a constant state of aliveness that was at once exhilarating and brutally overwhelming. 

After exploring the main level of the city, they had found their way to Tapster’s Tavern for room and board and a much needed rest. Morrigan was complaining about her feet being sore from all the walking (though how walking in Orzammar was different from all the walking they had done in the Korcari Wilds, Lothering, Redcliffe and the dozen or so other places they had visited, Alistair didn’t know). Leliana had developed an obsession with the little wriggling pink things that scurried through the streets (if he heard her squeal about how cute they were one more time, he half expected Morrigan would turn her into one). Sten remarked dangerously how much he disliked being unable to tell the exact time (it was strange how unnerving Sten could be when he spoke of the simplest things… Alistair was ten times more scared of him now). Zevran thought everything smelled unappetizingly like smoke and oil (a strange remark from a man with a leather fetish, Alistair thought). And Rhea—poor Rhea—was ranting and cursing with every step about how even when the world was coming to an end, people still cared more about who wore a crown than survival (she wasn’t wrong). 

Only Brand, Rhea’s mabari hound, seemed genuinely happy. 

It was Leliana’s decision to soothe their worries with a drink at the bar. Morrigan had quickly declined, slipping away to her room almost immediately, a scowl on her face. Sten said that everything was embarrassingly small in the tavern compared to the grandeur of the dwarven halls outside, and took his leave without further notice, Brand trotting happily at his heels. Once their drinks were delivered, Zevran struck up a conversation with a group of merchants and quickly pressed them into a game of Wicked Grace. Leliana sipped her drink, smiling pleasantly at passersby, narrow eyes sweeping through the tavern until she got up and announced that she was going to talk to the locals, see what stories they had to tell. 

Which left Alistair with Rhea, alone at the bar. 

“Well, then,” Alistair said, drumming his fingers against his tankard. “I guess we have some time to yourselves. Unexpected, you know. I like it. Like most unexpected things, I guess—” 

“I hate Orzammar,” Rhea said. 

“Oh. Oh, you do. I see.” Alistair flushed and, to hide the sudden redness in his cheeks, took a drink. 

“It stinks.” 

“Like oil and smoke, I know.” 

“No,” Rhea said. “It _stinks._ It stinks of politics. The people here are slimy, greedy, good-for-nothing idiots who think they run the world. Well, piss off, you Aeducans and you Harrowmonts. There might be a lull in the violence now, but if you don’t help me stop the Blight, Orzammar will fall just like Ferelden.” 

“I know.” 

“No, Alistair, they don’t! _They don’t know!”_  

He reached out and grabbed her hand. “Sorry. I meant that _I_ know. I’m just as angry as you are.” 

Rhea stared at him. She didn’t move her hand away. Her dark brown eyes were large and unfathomable. She was so expressive, yet he could never read her face. He could never tell what she was thinking. Maybe it had to do with her life in Denerim, the circumstances she had grown up in. An elf living in the alienage, running with street crews, scraping by however she could, on the run from the city guard. She kept herself shielded, becoming a blank slate that could mean anything and everything, or nothing at all. 

Finally, she spoke. 

“Thank the Maker you’re here, Alistair,” Rhea breathed, turning away and taking a long drink. “I don’t think I’d be able to do this without you.” 

She still hadn’t taken her hand away. 

Alistair took another drink.  

“Well, that’s—uh—reassuring,” he said with a nervous laugh. “Wouldn’t want you to get too tired of me, not when we’re stuck hundreds of feet below the ground.” He glanced at the ceiling. It was made of stone, not wood. That bothered him. It felt unnatural, even though he knew there was no reason for the dwarven structures to be made of wood here. 

 _Just as long as it doesn’t cave in on my head._  

“I’m serious,” Rhea said, turning back to him, eyes intense. “I can’t do this without you.” 

Alistair sighed. “Don’t make me out to be more useful than I am. I know I haven’t been much help. More like baggage, really. Really heavy, clanking baggage, because of all this chainmail, right—” 

“Alistair,” Rhea interrupted, her voice soft. “You’re more competent than you give yourself credit. We’re the only Grey Wardens left. I’d rather have you here than anyone else.” 

She clutched his hand, gripping it fiercely. He stared at their intertwined fingers, not really sure what to say. He took another swig from his tankard, finishing it off. When he put it down, Rhea was still looking at him. 

“All right,” Alistair said, quickly glancing around the tavern. Zevran was engaged in another round of Wicked Grace and Leliana was sitting sideways on a couch, laughing at a young dwarven woman. He turned back to Rhea. “If we’re in the mood for a Grey Warden heart to heart, I’m going to need another drink. Do you want one?” 

Rhea glanced at her empty mug. “Sure.” 

Alistair ordered another round, setting the drinks down on the counter between them. He dragged his stool closer to Rhea’s. He noticed, disappointingly, that her dark hands were now folded in her lap. “So,” he said, lifting his tankard. “Cheers?” 

“To what?” Rhea said. 

“I dunno. To Orzammar? To life? To the road? To the darkspawn? To the Grey Wardens? There’s many options, none of them great.” 

Rhea drew her tankard forwards and gently bumped it against his. “To us then,” Rhea said. “And the Grey Wardens. To those we never had time to mourn.” 

Silence settled over them. Alistair looked away, as did Rhea, her eyes cast downwards. They held their tankards in their hands for a long moment, the lively cacophony of the tavern washing over them, at odds with this sudden, solemn moment. Then, without looking at each other, they each raised their glass and took a long drink. 

“To us,” Alistair murmured as he put his tankard down. “And the task ahead.” 

Rhea nodded. “You’ve got dirt on your nose, by the way,” she said. 

Alistair paused. “You really need to work on your conversation starters,” he said, chuckling at the absurd shift in tone. 

“No, really,” Rhea said. “You’ve got dirt on your nose.” 

She reached out and rubbed his nose with her thumb, dark eyes staring intently at his face. She was leaning forwards on her stool, far too much forwards, as if she were about to tumble into his arms… For a split second, Alistair felt like his heart had jumped into his throat.   

But Rhea did not tumble. She drew away, the hint of a smile at the edge of her lips. 

“There,” she said. 

“Better?

“Much.” 

“Good. Wouldn’t want anything ruining this handsome face.” 

“No,” Rhea said. “We wouldn’t want that at all.” She smiled, and ran a hand through her long, black hair. 

He had always found the way she wore her hair fascinating. Shaved on one side, long and flowing on the other, small braids twisted from her temple and running down to the ends. It suited her, her brashness, her blunt candor. It was just like the piercings in her ears or the small brass stud she wore in her nose. No gold or silver here—only cheap metals, a reminder of the poverty she had come from. She was, as she had always been, Rhea first and a Grey Warden second. Nothing could supersede her own sense of self, not even the burden of stopping a Blight.   

 _Maker… She’s so beautiful._   

He had never told her that, of course. That wasn’t the sort of thing you told the woman who had to save the world with you unless you knew for certain she would appreciate it. 

And that was probably never going to happen. 

“Alistair, you’re staring.” 

“What?” 

“You’re staring.” 

“Hm…” 

Rhea’s face swam in his vision as she leaned forwards, brows knitted together with concern. “Are you all right?” 

“I’m fine,” Alistair said. “I’m fine!” He jolted out of his reverie and straightened up.   

“Good,” Rhea said. “Just checking. I didn’t want drool to drip out of your mouth unexpectedly.” 

“I wasn’t drooling because I wasn’t drowsing!” Alistair protested. “I was—” 

“Yes?”

“I was _thinking,”_ he finished pointedly. 

Rhea raised an eyebrow, then burst into laughter. Content, genuine laughter. She reached out and touched him fondly on the shoulder, and then he started laughing too, as if laughter was infectious and whatever she had, she had passed on to him. They sat there for some time, giggling like two fools at the bar, sloshing their drinks, confused as to what had started them on this path in the first place. 

“Oh, Maker,” Rhea said, frowning as she noticed spilled ale on the counter. “How did we get to this?” 

“I guess the ale must have gotten to me faster than I thought it would,” Alistair said. 

“I meant how did we get to drinking together in a bar in Orzammar,” Rhea said. 

“Oh.” 

“But that works too,” she added brightly, playfully poking him with a finger. She drained the rest of her drink. “This… this is good ale,” she said, moving back and forth slightly.   

“Are you swaying?” Alistair asked. 

“No,” Rhea said. “I’m moving in time to the music. It’s good music.” 

Alistair couldn’t argue that. Tapster’s did have some great minstrels. Good enough to ensnare Leliana—she had wandered across the tavern and was now talking to the lutist. 

“Damn Orzammar keeping all the good things to themselves,” Alistair said. “The best armour, the best weapons, the best food, the best ale, the best minstrels—” 

“The best dwarven crafts—” 

“Those too,” Alistair said, nodding. “Can’t forget those.”  He leaned in close. “You know what they don’t have?” 

Rhea leaned in, one hand on his shoulder. “What?” she whispered conspiratorially in his ear. 

“You.” 

He kissed her. 

He hadn’t meant to—the impulse had appeared without warning and he just leaned in (farther than he already was) and kissed her. Rhea’s lips were warm and tasted of ale. She let out a small gasp of surprise, but threw her arm around his shoulders and clutched at him. She slipped off her stool, and now she was standing on tiptoes, still kissing him. 

She was soft and sweet, but there was a force behind her as well. Her fingers were digging into his shoulder while her free hand pressed against his chest, gripping a handful of the material of his shirt. She nearly slipped, her weight pulling him with her, but she caught herself before she pulled him off her stool. She started laughing, and now she was laughing against his lips, and he was laughing, too. Alistair put an arm around her waist, pulling her close. Rhea’s lips parted, her tongue gently running along his bottom lip, curious and hesistant. They paused, their noses touching, feeling their breath upon each other, and then came crashing back together. 

And as he kissed her, Alistair thought there was something about this moment, that this singular, hazy moment that felt like it was supposed to happen _._ After so many things that had gone wrong, it was a breath of relief to feel that something was right. 

Rhea pulled away. 

“Alistair—” 

“Yes—what—sorry? Did I do something wrong?” 

Rhea stepped back. “No,” she said. Her expression was unreadable. Damn it. “I just think maybe we’ve both had too much to drink.” 

“But we’ve only had a couple of pints each!” 

“Yes,” Rhea said. She put her hand on his arm for balance. “And that stuff is much stronger than any other ale I’ve had. I can tell you right now that I have _definitely_ had too much to drink.” 

“Oh,” Alistair said. “Oh. Yeah. Yes.” He coughed. “Yes, you’re probably right.” He paused. He couldn’t look her in the face for some reason. And he had the feeling he was blushing furiously. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That kiss wasn’t very chivalrous of me.” 

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Rhea said. “It was fun. It was nice. After all, if you can’t get drunk and make out with your friends, what kind of friends are they?” 

“The responsible kind, I imagine.” 

Rhea paused. “True,” she said. “Well, goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.” 

Rhea swept away across the tavern, disappearing through the door to the back hall, where should would find the room she shared with Leliana. She didn’t look back. 

Alistair ran a hand across the back of his neck and sighed. 

_You idiot. You foolish, foolish idiot. Why did you think that was a good idea?_

From now on he was blaming any acts of idiocy on dwarven-made ale. 


End file.
